


everybody wants somebody (who wants somebody else)

by vulcanistics



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: BPT (Before Presnel Time), Drunk Blow Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 06:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17239217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanistics/pseuds/vulcanistics
Summary: Julian and Emre celebrate Germany's Confederations Cup victory.





	everybody wants somebody (who wants somebody else)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thomasmxller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasmxller/gifts).



> happy new year's eve!!! this fic is a whole year and a half late lmao and is also written for [this](https://footballkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/887.html?thread=40311#cmt40311) prompt at the footballkinkmeme. i've never written smut before but i've wanted to write this particular idea for so long and i really do love this pair. i mean they were great during the confeds and here are a few examples: [1](http://kayhavertz.tumblr.com/post/176302003479), [2](http://kayhavertz.tumblr.com/post/176357268014/yulian-draksler-%C3%A7ok-g%C3%BCzel-290617) and [3](http://kayhavertz.tumblr.com/post/180590932824)
> 
> also, **disclaimer:** this is a work of fiction which never happend. i do not profit from this and i do not wish to offend or harm anyone. all publicly recognizable people, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
> 
> title from patrick stump's "everybody wants somebody"

Joshua has the trophy cradled to his chest as he dances with Leon and Julian Brandt. The gold glimmers and shines under the lights, illuminated by the way Joshua and Brandt are smiling and laughing against Leon's neck.

Emre watches them stumble into each other, bumping heads and elbows as they yell along to the song playing over the speakers.

 _Confederations Cup winners,_ he thinks and looks away from the trio, shifting his attention back to the other occupants of the couch.

Antonio Rüdiger is in conversation with Shkodran, discussing their respective plans for the vacations. He's about to interrupt by telling them about his plan to visit Los Angeles and to meet up with Jule over there when he realises that Julian is missing.

He blinks at the discarded bottle of beer on the table and the empty space on the couch where he's sure Julian had been sitting fifteen minutes back.

“Wait, where did Draxler go?” Emre shouts over the music, leaning into Antonio's side to make himself heard.

Antonio casts him a weary look, apparently unimpressed by him yelling into his ear, “He went to answer a call and then never came back.”

“And forgot the trophy in a room full of people who are various stages of drunk? That doesn't seem like a smart idea,” Emre scoffs with a frown.

Shkodran shrugs, and gestures towards the dance floor, “He looked drunk himself and besides, Kimmich has it. So he doesn't have to worry about anyone dropping it.”

The words are barely out of Shkodran's mouth when there's a loud crash from the dance floor, like the sound of metal hitting the ground, and someone swears. Emre sits up straighter in alarm and looks on with wide-eyes as Joshua hastily picks up the trophy from where it had fallen at his feet.

“Nobody tells Jule,” Leon's voice drifts to their couch.

Emre snickers and casts a withering look at Shkodran. Musti really needed to watch his mouth. Emre's certain that over the course of the tournament, Shkodran had said one thing and the exact opposite thing has happened at least seven times. Kimmich dropping the trophy right after Shkodran said he wouldn't do just that, made it eight times. A testament to his occasionally disastrous luck.

“If Jule finds out, I'm telling him it was your fault,” Emre says.

Mustafi groans, “I didn't even do anything. Someone cursed me, okay? I'm sure of it,” He chugs down the rest of the beer in his glass with a pained expression before continuing, “Fuck this, I'm going back to dance.”

Shkodran rises to his feet, surprisingly steady for someone who is on his sixth glass of beer of the night, except he bangs his knee against the edge of the table and drops back on to the couch. He groans and rubs at his knee. Emre howls with laughter and Musti throws him the middle finger.

“Fuck you. Jo didn't drop the trophy, I didn't drop the trophy, you didn't drop the trophy. Julian dropped it by leaving it behind. It's his fault,” Shkodran says with a slurred voice.

“I'm going to tell him you said that,” Emre declares, stumbling over his feet as he tries to stand up, the ground shifting while the room spins in the corner of his eyes.

Emre blinks rapidly and rubs at his face, trying to see through the cloud of drunkenness.

“Where are you going?” Someone asks and Emre reaches out and squeezes whatever is closest to him, which ends up being Antonio's shoulder, “Going to find Jule and get him back. Can't have a party without our captain.”

 

–––

 

It takes Emre fifteen minutes to find his way to his hotel room and another ten minutes for Julian to open the door. Not that Emre is counting or anything.

He’s too busy alternating between knocking insistently on the door, yelling out Julian's name, singing a song from his childhood, and drinking from the bottle of beer he'd stolen from the party downstairs.

“You left the party early,” Emre says when Julian finally opens the door and frowns at himself as the words leave his lips. He hadn't meant for that to sound like an accusation. “Captain,” He adds as an afterthought, shoving the bottle at Julian's chest.

Julian blinks at the bottle in confusion, turning it over in his hand before he remembers that Emre is still standing in front of him. He smiles shakily, opening the door wider for Emre.

“What’s up? What are you doing here?”

“This is my room as well, remember? And you,” Emre says, pointing his finger at Julian's chest as he stumbles forward into the room, “left the party early. We missed you.”

“Bet you didn't realise I was gone till much later,” Julian snorts and maneuvers Emre to one of the beds. It takes them longer than it should, but in their defense, they're both drunk, and drunk Julian has always been a light-weight.

“Julian,” Emre says, drawing out his name as he falls back on the bed, “how much have you had to drink already?”

Julian discards Emre's bottle of beer on the table and flops down beside him, “Enough to know that I shouldn’t drink more.”

“Well, you deserve it, we deserve it. Can you believe it? Champions, Julian, champions. We fucking did it. And–” Emre pauses, eyes falling on the metal trophy on the table, “you got the best player award thing.”

“Think we can do it again next year? With the World Cup?” Julian asks, seriously.

Emre turns his face to squint at Julian. “That’s what you left the party for? To think about the future? Jule, that's sad, even for you.”

“Shut up. I wasn't thinking about it,” Julian laughs and whacks Emre on his arm, “No, I got a call. Presnel– Presnel Kimpembe from PSG called to congratulate me. Us. Germany.”

“And you answered while drunk. True friendship right there.”

“Right. That. Thanks.” Julian mumbles, frowning up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I don’t know what I said to him.”

“Can’t have been as bad as Jo dropping the trophy.”

“Joshua did what?” Julian shrieks.

Emre winces, because right, he had planned on blaming Musti for that. Oh well.

Julian shifts and Emre fumbles between them to squeeze Julian’s wrist, he doesn’t want Julian to leave, because that would mean getting up and getting out of bed, “It’s fine, now. No goods were damaged. It’s under control.”

“My responsibility,” Julian says, but he doesn’t shake off Emre’s hand, “Our party, our trophy. Jo dropped it, what the fuck,”

"And he picked it up. And we won, dude. And you need to celebrate,” Emre says, and lets go of Julian’s wrist to lift himself on his elbows.

He tilts his head to look at Julian, “You know what you need?”.

Julian doesn't answer him immediately, he drags his gaze away from the ceiling to stare at Emre. Something catches in Emre's throat as his eyes drift down to the hint of wetness on Julian's lips.

Julian’s eyes brightly gleam in the lowlights of the hotel room and he asks, “What?”

He means to say _party_ because that's the entire reason he came back to their room–to drag Julian back to the team party–except what comes out is: “A celebratory blow job.”

Julian's eyes widen and Emre opens his mouth, ready to dismiss the whole thing as a bad drunk idea, which it kind of is, but Julian interrupts him.

“Are you offering?” Julian asks, the corner of his lips curling into an amused smirk.

Heat pools at the bottom of his stomach and Emre feels his mouth go dry; he's not sure whether it's because of the alcohol or because of the interest flashing in Julian's eyes. It _is_ a bad drunk suggestion but it's not like he hasn't fantasised about it, about Julian before. Julian is attractive.

 _And a drunken blow job between friends is of no consequence anyway_ _,_ Emre thinks to himself.

“If you want, yeah,” Emre says, truthfully, and he finds himself sliding his hand under Julian's t-shirt, resting it just above the waistband of his shorts. Julian’s eyes flick to Emre's hand but he doesn't push it away.

“You want to give me a blow job,” Julian says, his forehead creasing slightly. He looks away from Emre, tilting his face to stare at the window, and he quietly asks, “In Russia?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Emre removes his hand from Julian's stomach in order to push himself up properly.

He swings a leg over Julian and straddles his thighs. Julian stares up at him, mouth slightly open, eyes clouded over.

Emre runs his hands along his sides and smiles reassuringly, “You’re not going to get into trouble with the Russian government, Jule. Nobody’s going to know.”

“Right. A one-time thing.”

“A Confederation Cup special for the winning captain.”

“We're drunk,” Julian huffs a small laugh and smiles, bringing his hands up to fiddle with the collar of Emre's shirt and pulling him closer. His hands tremble as he shakily tries to unbutton Emre's shirt. “We’re drunk and you're hot,” he says.

“We are and I am,” Emre nods and pushes Julian's hands aside in order to shrug his shirt off, “but you're hot too, especially when you're getting naked.”

He pushes Julian's t-shirt, bunching it up to his chest, and runs his fingers along the muscles across Julian's abdomen. Julian lifts his arms and Emre tugs his t-shirt over his head, mumbling in encouragement. “Come on, off. Get this off.”

“Promise you're not gonna make this weird tomorrow?” Julian asks and Emre pauses in the middle of unbuttoning Julian's shorts.

“One would think you've never slept with a teammate or a friend. And I know for a fact that you've done those things before,” Emre remarks dryly.

Julian laughs, properly this time, a sudden burst of amusement at Emre's comment. Emre smiles at the way Julian's eyes crinkle and he chases after the sound of Julian's laughter with his mouth. He leans over Julian, presses him into the bed with his weight, and kisses him–Julian's lips taste and smell faintly of wine and beer.

He can feel Julian growing harder under him, his cock pressing up into Emre's thigh and Emre rocks his hips forward, feeling his own erection aching in his underwear. He buries his hand in Julian's hair, firmly tugs at it and Julian moans into the kiss, opening his mouth for Emre to slide his tongue against his. Emre breaks the kiss to palm at his dick through his pants.

“So. About that celebratory blow job?” Emre asks with a smirk.

“God. Yes, please.”

Emre lifts himself off Julian, ignoring the small whine of protest that escapes Julian's lips, and hurriedly pulls down his pants and boxers, shimming out of them and discarding them at the foot of the bed.

Julian watches him with dark eyes, rubbing his cock through his underwear. Emre strokes his own dick a couple of times before climbing back on to the bed.

Sitting between Julian's legs, he runs his hands along his thighs, feeling the muscles tighten and clench under his palms. Julian’s cock strains against the fabric of his underwear and Emre traces its outline with his fingers. Julian moans as he thrusts desperately into his hand.

“Not yet,” Emre says, curling his other hand around Julian's hip, gripping at it tightly in a way that's going to leave faint bruises on Julian's pale skin.

“Fuck, Emre, please. I need–” Julian pants breathlessly.

Emre laughs and leans up to kiss him, rocking in slow, rhythmic motions against Julian. Julian kisses him with eagerness, smiling against Emre's mouth before tilting his head backward. Emre ducks his head to press kisses along his jaw and lick a long strip down his chest. Dropping his head lower, he bites playfully at a spot under Julian's ribcage and Julian writhes in pleasure, scrunching his eyes shut as his fingers flail about, desperately trying to curl his fingers into the sheets.

“You’re so pretty like this, all hard and desperate,” Emre mouths just above the waistband of Julian’s underwear.

Julian moans and Emre reaches to slide two fingers into Julian's open mouth. “Come on, get them nice as wet,” he says.

Julian's eyes flicker open to look at Emre. There's an unfocused glaze in his eyes but Julian doesn't break eye contact as he enthusiastically sucks at Emre's fingers and rocks his hips up, desperately seeking some friction.

Emre groans, dizzy and breathless, and he pulls his fingers out of Julian's mouth. Julian whimpers, lifting his head off the pillow in a feeble attempt to chase after his fingers.

“Emre, god, do something, please. Please touch me,” Julian pleads.

Emre spits into his hand and smirks, “Anything for you, captain.”

Slipping his hand into Julian's underwear, he rubs his hand along the length of his cock. Julian's hips lift up and Emre uses the movement to pull his underwear down over the curve of his ass and down to his ankles.

He presses open-mouthed kisses along the inside of Julian's thighs, and Julian whimpers as his beard scratches against his skin.

“Fuck, Emre, I–” Julian begins to say, but his words get lost in his high-pitched moan as Emre finally wraps his fingers around his cock.

Emre strokes him slowly twisting his wrist as he moves his hand up and down, adjusting and changing the pressure while Julian's moans increase in frequency. He runs a thumb around the head of the cock, brushing over the slit, before moving back to the shaft. Dropping his hand to cup Julian's balls, he runs his fingers over them and squeezes them lightly.

Julian chokes back a sob, eyelids fluttering shut.

Precum leaks from the tip of Julian's dick and Emre lowers his head to swirl his tongue over the head and into the slit. Julian mewls, throwing his arm over his eyes as he bucks up into Emre's mouth, the tip of his dick sliding past Emre's lips.

By Emre's blowjob standards, it's probably not the best blowjob he's ever given–it’s sloppy, messy and he's drunk, and he’s not sure if he accidentally grazes the sides of Julian's dick with his teeth or not–but Julian doesn't complain, whimpering and moaning and panting as Emre bobs his head. 

He slides his tongue over the head of Julian's dick and looks up at Julian. The sight of sweat glinting on Julian's skin as his back arches off the bed, eyes closed while he gasps for _more more more,_ makes the back of Emre's thighs tremble. Tightening his grip around the base of Julian's cock, Emre takes him deeper into his mouth.

“Want this so bad, wanted this for so long, don't stop,” Julian's hands slide into Emre's hair, pulling at it as he babbles in desperation and Emre moans at the sensation.

He sorely regrets not studying French in school because Julian is whining and whimpering, slipping through German, English and French, as he thrusts into Emre's mouth and – and even though he doesn't understand it, _it is hot_.

He allows Julian to dictate the rhythm for a bit, fucking into Emre’s mouth in erratic and desperate movements, before he shakes his head and Julian's hands fall back to the sheets, moaning something that sounds suspiciously like “I love you” in French. Emre falters for a second, eyebrows furrowing together because he must have misheard that, right?

“Close, I’m close,” Julian cries out.

Emre lifts his head from Julian’s cock with a final swirl of his tongue and quickens his stroking of Julian’s cock. “Come on, Jule, let go, come for me,” Emre coaxes, leaning over Julian to bite at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder.

Julian gasps a quiet, whispered cry of _“Presnel,”_ and Emre only has a second to think, “Oh. That puts everything into perspective,” before Julian comes on his hand, moaning “Presnel” again and again as Emre strokes him through his orgasm. There’s an odd tightening in his chest that Emre ignores and dismisses in favour of kissing Julian hungrily.

“Want to touch you,” Julian murmurs against his mouth.

“Nah, I got this.”

Emre pushes himself up on one forearm and Julian looks up him through half-lidded eyes, blinking at him as though he’s not really seeing Emre. His skin is flushed and he looks thoroughly exhausted and spent. Emre reaches out to brush back a stray curl on Julian's forehead before trailing his hand down to his own cock.

Julian lazily rocks his hips up, mumbling something in French.

“Say that again in German, Jule,” Emre pants, “Or English.”

Julian blinks at him in confusion before he repeats in German: “Want you to fuck me.”

Emre’s dick twitches in his suddenly still hand and he stares at Julian. He thinks about Julian crying out Presnel's name as he came, about the litany of pleas in English, French and German, how Julian had his eyes closed the entire time.

“Maybe some other time,” Emre says, finally. 

He drops his head to nuzzle his nose against Julian's neck and breathes in deeply and strokes himself. He bites down on the urge to cry out Julian’s name as he comes over his hand and on Julian’s stomach.

Emre collapses on top of Julian and Julian shifts to wrap his arms around him in a sleepy hug. The stickiness between their bodies is slightly uncomfortable. They really need to get up and wipe themselves clean, but maybe later, Emre thinks as he presses a kiss to the side of Julian’s face. It’s a moment of tenderness that neither of them is going to remember or think about the next morning.

 

–––

 

Emre takes a sip of his coffee and pulls a face. Airport coffee was the absolute worst.

“Here, I got you some tea,” Emre says, handing over the other cup in his hand to Julian who looks up from his phone to smile at him.

Julian closes his eyes as he takes a cautious sip and makes a delighted sound in the back of his throat, “Thank you.”

Emre shrugs nonchalantly and sits beside Julian. Julian has his arm curled protectively around the cup and his best player trophy, and he’s smiling down at his phone as types out a message.

Emre watches him from the corner of his eye in consideration. He had wanted to ask Julian about the whole French sex sounds thing in the morning itself, but they had both woken up too late for conversation, rushing about the room to shower and change and get ready to check-out of the hotel. Julian had disappeared from the room to hunt down Joshua and the trophy.

Emre had said he wouldn’t make it weird the next day, but he’s curious. Their plane is in another hour and well, they do have time on their hands.

“Hey Jule, does he know?” Emre asks, bluntly.

Unsurprisingly, Julian chokes on his tea. “What are you talking about?” Julian asks, a pink blush dusting across the line of his cheekbones.

“Presnel. I'm sure you know him. I mean, he's all over your Instagram and you were moaning his name pretty loudly last night.”

 _“Emre Can_ ,” Julian hisses, casting a cautious glance around them.

Emre honestly has no idea why Julian thinks anyone's paying attention to their conversation.

Most of the team is nursing their hangovers and hiding their tired eyes behind sunglasses. Lars is curled up on one of the chairs, sleeping with his backpack as a makeshift pillow. Basti is asleep on Niklas’ shoulder. Marc-André and Bernd are watching a video on one of their phones. Jonas, Matze, Antonio, and Shkodran are playing UNO. Kevin sits a little distance away from them, talking quietly on the phone.

Despite himself, Emre shrugs and lowers his voice, “Okay, what's going on between you and Presnel?”

“Nothing,” Julian says, suddenly sullen.

“Huh, well then, you should probably consider telling him that you’re into him.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Cause the next person you sleep with might not be as understanding as me about you moaning Presnel’s name in bed unless of course, they’re named Presnel.”

“Wait, _what?_ I did what?” Julian blanches.

“You also told me that you love me, or Presnel, whatever.” Emre says, smugly, “I probably should feel insulted, but really, now that I think about it, this is all very amusing.”

Julian groans and buries his face in his hands, "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, maybe he'll offer you a blow job one day, and you can tell him then."

"Emre, _please_ stop talking."

 

  
_the end._

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the slightly rushed ending! anyway thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it or if you have thoughts, do leave kudos, comments, and critique, thank you! I'm also on [tumblr.](https://www.kayhavertz.tumblr.com)


End file.
